


A What-If Scenario

by Fyre



Series: Inverse Omens [5]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Reverse roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21943189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Crowley wanted to put a brick through the bastard’s window. He wanted to scream and rage and do… anything a human could and would do. He wanted… he wanted… -Inverse Omens - The EstrangementFor close upon a decade, Aziraphale had not left his shop. In fact, he had barely moved at all, spent and drained and unable to ignore the chasm he had crafted between himself and the one person who might have cared about him. -Inverse Omens - The EstrangementWhat if Crowleyhadput a brick through the shop window?
Series: Inverse Omens [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1482338
Comments: 86
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I simply need to write a scene to get it out of my head. This was one of those moments. I knew what Crowley would find if he smashed the window in his estrangement chapter. I knew how Aziraphale would react from his estrangement chapter. And so, this happened.

**1939 – Soho**

The sound of shattering glass roused Aziraphale from his torpor.

His eyelids – unbearably heavily – creaked open, dust scattering from his lashes and gritting his bone-dry eyes.

Another crash. More glass. Windows.

With the slowness of a glacier, he turned his head. Rocks, he saw. On the floor. Thrown. Not the first time. People had… views. The defences around the shop were… lower than he had realised. Strange.

Beyond them, a person.

No.

His heart quailed.

Crowley. The angel was there. His voice broke through, muffled, furious, pained. Oh. Oh no. That was wrong. He must have found out. He must have learned the part Aziraphale had unwittingly played. He… oh Lord…

Aziraphale rose, joints stiff-boned from inaction. With juddering steps, he staggered across the floor to the door. Another rock. Another pane of glass. Another kind of pain too. Angry, harsh, despairing sobs.

Angel…

“–you keep on doing it, you bastard!” Crowley’s voice was almost that of a stranger. “How’m I meant to– we do– you know how we do this!” Another crash, another rock. “I can’t– you selfish, stupid idiot! Why did you leave?” The sob is like a blade. “Why did you leave me?”

His fingers trembled as he unlocked the doors, drew them open. Crowley was still there, arm upraised, rock in his fist. His eyes were wet and red, his cheeks flushed, but he paled, paled quickly, as ash.

And, like Atlas beneath the weight of the guilt, Aziraphale dropped to his knees, unable to bear it.

A rattle. Rock on stone. Not on glass.

“’Ziraphale?”

Eyes dry as the wells of Persepolis burned suddenly, vision awash and hazed. “I’m sorry,” his parched lips bled. “I’m sorry.”

Hands touched his face. His throat. A snapped neck, then? He deserved that. Whatever Crowley wanted to do, he had earned the right.

“Aziraphale,” the angel said again, shaking. “Aziraphale, what happened? What’s wrong with you?”

With a dust-heavy blink, he felt the hot trails spill down his cheeks. His clouded vision resolved into Crowley’s face, close to his, pale and wet and terrified. The angel touched his cheek, rubbed his thumb along it, gathered the dust and the tears.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again, hoarsely, the litany drumming in his ears and his head as it has done for year after year. Like the monks at prayer, the call and response. “I’m sorry. It all went so… very wrong…” Even his legs couldn’t hold him and he sank, sitting down hard on his heels. “I’m… very sorry.”

“No,” Crowley’s voice broke. “No, Aziraphale…”

All at once, Aziraphale was pulled forwards, unresisting. Crowley’s arms were around him, then with a flurry, wings too. Shaking hands were in his hair, stroking.

“It’s all right,” Crowley whispered, pulling him close as if he had done nothing wrong and never set the world ablaze. “It’s all right. I forgive you. I forgive you.” His words were rattling as much as Aziraphale’s aching heart. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me again.”

Aziraphale stared blindly into the street outside. Rain on the pavement. Cool air swept into the shop, wrapping around them. With effort, his limbs weighted as if with lead, he put his shaking arms around Crowley. His vision wavered again, hot and wet, and he buried his face in the angel’s shivering shoulder and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely speculative free-standing piece, but I needed to write it so it wasn't in my head anymore. And I decided to inflict it on you because I am a bastard :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of course Crowley wanted to have his say as well...

1939 – Soho

Once, a long time ago, Crowley had witnessed a landslide up close. It was terrifying, a huge part of the world shifting sliding and moving with suffocating speed. He had seen animals too afraid to run, crouching, curling, frozen in terror, engulfed and smothered.

When the doors of the shop had opened in front of him and he saw Aziraphale, he saw those animals in his mind’s eye.

Now, they were in the back of the shop.

He’d carried Aziraphale there, limp-limbed and helpless. It was… wrong. It was frightening, seeing him like that. Still, grey with dust, barely more than stone. He looked the part too, so much so that for a horrifying moment, Crowley almost believed Aziraphale had been turned into some terrible statue of himself.

Only when he blinked, when tears cleared the grey from his eyes and cut flesh-coloured furrows down his cheeks, did Crowley understand.

He could have whisked the dust away with a snap of his fingers, but his hands were shaking too much and for some things, you needed contact. They needed contact. The reassurance and tangible reminder that they were both here.

“The water’s just heating,” he said as gently as he could, kneeling down in front of the chair. It was the one patch of colour he had spotted when he entered the room – the void where Aziraphale must have sat for God only knew how long. He’d set the demon back down there and Aziraphale hadn’t moved again.

Those brilliant turquoise eyes were spilling over again, the ashy grey of his cheeks smudged and dirty now.

“Hey, no,” Crowley said softly, kneeling up and gently capturing his face between his own hands. “None of that.” He groped for his handkerchief and wiped the tears from Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Don’t cry. It’s all right.”

“All right,” Aziraphale echoed, his voice like stone on stone. Oh Lord, how long had he been sitting, willing himself into stillness, unmoving, unbreathing, unspeaking.

Crowley made himself nod. He’d smiled through worse. He had. “We’ll get you cleaned up, all right? Make you feel more like yourself.” He set the handkerchief aside and reached for Aziraphale’s cravat. It was as stiff with dust as Aziraphale himself and Crowley couldn’t stop the sneeze that burst out of him. “Oh.” He sputtered. “Shit.” Another sneeze. “Oh Christ.” Another one. He pressed the back of his hand to his nose and – as awkward as it felt – said, “I always knew you were a dirty bugger, but this is ridiculous.”

There was a sound that might have been a whisper of a chuckle, a crease in the dust by Aziraphale’s mouth that might have been the shadow of a smile.

A spark of something. That… that was good. He ducked his face as he leaned closer, working on Aziraphale’s buttons of his waistcoat and then his shirt. The sneezes gave him the excuse for blinking the wetness from his eyes as well. Aziraphale didn’t even say anything when Crowley gently stripped him out of his clothing.

Teasing, he thought wildly. Teasing helped, didn’t it?

“Never thought it would be this way around, did you?” He propped his elbow on Aziraphale’s knee. “Bet you thought you’d be the one doing the stripping.”

Oh fuck! More tears, heavier ones now.

“Don’t!” He pulled Aziraphale back into his arms, the demon’s hot face burrowing into his neck. “Sweetheart, it’s all right. Honestly, it is.”

“No,” Aziraphale whispered hoarsely. “No.” His head shook slowly. “My fault. You said. The war. The war.”

Crowley pressed his eyes shut. He’d been yelling and screaming and angry and he had no idea Aziraphale was standing there, listening. “No,” he whispered, curling his hand over Aziraphale’s nape. “I don’t blame you. I don’t. You’re… not like this. You didn’t do anything.”

“The last…” A hot shuddering breath washed against his throat. “I told that silly fellow to go. The one who started it.”

Crowley frowned, fishing through his memories for the cause. An assassination. “Franz Ferdinand?”

The wetness of tears soaked his collar. “He _loved_ her, you know,” Aziraphale whispered. “What harm, I thought. What harm, to show off the one you love? That it’s no matter if she’s… unsuitable. To show that you don’t care what they– that it isn’t– it _can’t_ be wrong.”

Crowley’s heart twisted. Oh. Oh no. No, no, no, no. “Aziraphale…” he whispered, hugging him closer. “Oh, fuck… Aziraphale…”

“I thought…” Aziraphale’s voice broke. “Can it be wrong? Can it? To love? Like that? When it’s forbidden? I didn’t… it oughtn’t… it wasn’t meant to…” His arms were suddenly around Crowley and he was shuddering with muted sobs. “I didn’t mean for it to end like that.”

Crowley’s eyes were burning too, spilling over. A kindness, an act of compassion for someone who loved where they shouldn’t, and he had been forced to stand by and watch as it was the trigger point for a war worse than anything they’d ever seen. And blaming himself as the body count rose and the world burned.

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said fiercely. He drew back far enough to take Aziraphale’s face between his hands. “Aziraphale, you _know_ that wasn’t you.” He smudged the mess on Aziraphale’s cheeks with his thumbs. “You knew what utter shitbags humans can be. You _know_ that. Europe’s been a mess for centuries. Someone – something – like this was going to happen. We both know the signs.”

Aziraphale took a shivering breath. “But all those people–”

“No,” Crowley said sharply. “No! That wasn’t _you_. That was them. You know that. I know that. I don’t blame you for it. You were trying to be kind to the poor sod. You were trying to be _kind_.”

Those blue eyes – solid blue from one side to the other now – stared at him. The demon’s lips parched, cracked lips trembled. “Kind,” he echoed. He took a deeper, unsteadier breath. “Oh _Crowley_ …”

Crowley smiled even though he could feel hot warmth spilling down his own cheeks. “Yeah, you stupid bastard. That’s _my_ job.”

This time, the laugh was definitely there, hoarse and worn from disuse but there.

Relieved, Crowley gently pulled back from Aziraphale’s arms. “And since I’ve got you half-naked now, I’m going to get you cleaned up, d’you hear me? And then, I’m going to make you eat and drink something. Got it?”

Aziraphale looked up at him and when he smiled – small and brittle – Crowley almost wept all over again. “Perfectly, my dear.”

He had to turn away to hide the emotion he knew would be plastered all over his face and was halfway back to the stove when Aziraphale whispered his name again.

“Yeah?” He glanced back.

“I…” The tip of Aziraphale’s tongue was pale as it nervously skimmed his lower lip. “I missed you.”

Crowley braced a hand against the door frame. The weight in those words, the amount of unspoken meaning they carried, stole his breath away. And he smiled and nodded and said the layered words he had been wanting to say for years. “I missed you too.”

And Aziraphale smiled like the break of dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo, the final part.

For many years, Aziraphale had thought of all the things he would like to do to and with Crowley. There were a great number to choose from. Many involved an absence of clothing. And yet, here he sat, facing a scenario that had never crossed his mind.

Crowley was bathing him.

Gently, slowly, methodically, he was cleansing and sponging away all the dust of more than half a dozen years. The angel’s expression was one of utter concentration, as he tenderly cleaned Aziraphale’s face, smoothing every crease in his skin and wiping, then drying it. Then he turned his attention to body and limbs with equal focus.

You need not, Aziraphale knew he should protest, but as Crowley circled each knuckle, each finger, his palm, his wrists, his forearms, he knew the angel needed this almost as much as he did. He wanted to _help_. Aziraphale knew that look in his eyes. He wanted to do _something_ , even if it was something they both could have done with a snap of his fingers.

And for Aziraphale it was… it was a fresh anchor, a link back to the world that he kept damaging, a reminder that not all links were indefinitely broken.

Sometimes, those honey eyes darted to his. Sometimes, Crowley offered a small, tentative, oh-so-hopeful smile, so sweet and heavy with affection that Aziraphale’s own smile returned little by little. It was a frail, unsure thing now, after so long.

It took far longer than it needed to and by the time Crowley draped a self-made blanket around Aziraphale’s shoulders, the sun was tilting downwards.

“Do you have a bedroom?” The angel asked, helping Aziraphale to his stiffened legs.

Aziraphale nodded towards the back stairs. Crowley had never been into the shop before, let alone up there, but without hesitation, he slipped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, guiding him as if he was helpless, half-carrying him – shamble-footed – up the staircase.

It was unused, his bedroom, preserved perfectly for one who might use it. One who was, in fact, delivering him to it. He felt Crowley hesitated, but before he could say a word, the angel shoved the door open and stepped into the room, the afternoon sunlight pouring in on the white linens and heavy wooden bedframe.

Crowley stopped short so suddenly that Aziraphale tottered.

Unlike the shop below, it was a haven of lightness and warmth. Cushions scattered on a daybed by the wall, a warm blanket flung across the end of the bed. A painting – a particular street in Rome given a somewhat prettier veneer – hung on one wall. Little oddities: painted tiles, ornaments and trinkets from many places and many occasions decorated the small shelves.

“Oh.” He sounded startled.

“Mm?”

“Not what I expected.” A tentative smile flickered on the angel’s face. He bent and scooped Aziraphale up entirely, carrying him across the wooden floor and gently setting him down on the bed. “Don’t go anywhere,” he warned, as if that was really an option.

Aziraphale sat heavily back against the headboard and closed his eyes. The weight of dust was gone and it was something, but his still felt half-raw, like the stump of a limb torn away, a phantom limb of pain and loss and uncertainty. It was… there was no reason. Crowley was _here_.

Crowley.

Dearest beloved Crowley.

Taking the dusty damaged fragments and putting them back together again, fixing them in place with his heavenly flame, kintsukuroi on an angelic scale, and yet there were still the cracks where the dark felt like it was breaking through. Reminders of the chaos and the carnage and the bodies and all the damage he had done.

Aziraphale’s eyes stang rebelliously and his breath shuddered and hitched again and all at once, his cheeks were hot and wet.

Hands on his cheeks dragged him back to reality, back to honey eyes and flaming hair and then warm, skinny arms around him again. No reproach, nor even words this time, only miracle fingers in his hair and warm breath on his skin.

It took a long time for the tears to stop, but when they did, Crowley didn’t let go. He held Aziraphale between his limbs, as if he might fall apart without the scaffold of the angel’s affection – perhaps he would? He had brought tea, pottage, sweet treats and temptations. He plied them to Aziraphale’s lacklustre lips, and his small sighs of relief were by far more satisfying than any of the food. Bite by bite, sigh by sigh, the plate and cup were emptied.

For a long while, Aziraphale could only sit, enclosed in his embrace, but little by little, he moved his hand, brushed his fingers along Crowley’s arm.

Don’t leave me, he had said, voice breaking. Don’t leave me again.

Mutely, Aziraphale tilted the angel’s hand, kissed the back of his palm.

Crowley shivered into another small sigh, his arm tightening around Aziraphale’s shoulder, as if anticipating dismissal. No. Never again, if he could help it. With effort, the demon tangled his own hands, tugging the ring he had eternally worn from his finger. It was heavy and plain with a stone the colour of fire. Of the angel.

With another kiss, this one to the fingers curled over his shoulder, he took a nervous breath, then lifted the ring and slipped it onto Crowley’s finger. A particular finger. Significant enough for Crowley to make a small, beautiful sound.

“’Ziraphale,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale patted his hand, his finger, the ring. “A promise,” he replied as softly. “My promise. Always.”

Limbs were around him again, a sacred mantle, hot breath on his cheek. The angel’s tears were as hot as his own, and together, they held onto one another, anchored against the world.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a purely speculative free-standing piece, but I needed to write it so it wasn't in my head anymore. And I decided to inflict it on you because I am a bastard :)


End file.
